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The first two stories were about mothers and daughters. Here is a slightly longer one about a father and his daughter. The Empty Room Charles slept so heavily that by the time the December dawn broke, he seemed unable to open his eyes. He rolled them around his head but gum clamped the lids together.

And here is another short story … Belinda’s Lucky Day Belinda sat opposite her lawyer in his highly polished office, bitterly aware she wore down-at-heels shoes and woollen gloves with a hole in the right thumb. She started to pray. “As you know,” boomed Mr Godber, drumming podgy fingers, “your dear mother, Mrs Hilda Stubbs,

I love writing short stories. The fact they are short does not mean they are easy. Often the fewer words you are allowed, the harder life becomes. My best short stories are crisp and modern. Here is one of many … Apples and Pears At noon, a dusty sun high in an even dustier London

Stephen hesitated at the door of the conservatory. “Oh, and Beatrice …” I turned to look at him. “Yes, dear?” “Better luck next time?” His eyes were black with pain. I flushed with humiliation. “Yes, Stephen, of course …” Shame, guilt and anxiety gripped my heart. Blood seeped between my thighs. “Better luck next time.”

I am absolutely delighted to be able to write my first ever blog, mostly to thank so many readers who have written to me over the past two years to tell me how much they enjoyed LARKSWOOD. I had buried myself away in a rented cottage in Long Hanborough in order to do battle with